She only hoped it worked, because there was some serious ass-kissing to do if she hoped to convince Grady to be her fake rancher boyfriend. Grady, who had already made it plain he was not a fan of her or her work and was probably still—rightly—pissed about the paintings. But, man, was Suzanne grateful to have those paintings in her possession now. She had a feeling she was going to need the leverage.

When she’d been in the throes of creating them, they’d flowed from the purest place inside her, and the thought of sullying them with what was essentially bribery didn’t exactly thrill Suzanne. But surely he’d be able to see her cause was noble even if he’d never met her parents?

Didn’t cowboys go for all that noble shit? Wasn’t that part of their code?

Suzanne knocked again as the chilly air seeped in through clothes not suitable for a freezing December night in eastern Colorado. Because it was only a short walk, Suzanne hadn’t bothered to bundle up, wearing just her jeans, a light sweater, and her knee-high Uggs. She’d figured she’d only be out in the air for less than a minute, and it’d save her having to unravel in Grady’s cabin because taking clothes off near him reminded her of him stripped down to the waist, and she was still trying really hard to forget that incident.

But apparently, he was going to make her wait. Probably hoping she’d turn into a Popsicle on his doorstep.

Was he that mad? Yeah. Suzanne gave a mental nod. He was that mad.

Annoyed, she lifted her hand to knock a third time—she knew he was in there; she’d watched him go inside an hour ago just as the deep purple chill of twilight had descended. The door opened before her knuckles had a chance to connect, and Suzanne had to tense her quads to stop from stumbling forward.

He frowned at her. Just for something different… “What did you break now?” he asked as delicious warmth from his cabin made her very aware of her fripples high-beaming him.

Suzanne was torn between the urge to brain him with the bottle of red—it wasn’t that nice—and full-on ogling his body. If she thought Grady in Levis, plaid shirt, boots, and hat, smelling like hay and hard work, was something, then Grady in sweats and an old T-shirt was something else. There was a faded logo on the front, and he smelled like soap and toothpaste. His hair was damp around his head and, if she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t long out of the shower.

She suppressed the ridiculous urge to take a step forward and lean in, to bury her face in his shirt and revel in the kind of soft that hinted at a thousand washes. She locked her quads tighter instead and gritted her teeth for a beat before consciously ungritting them and plastering a smile on her face.

“I come in peace.” She thrust the bottle of wine at him and offered him the bowl of pasta. “Truce?”